


Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal

by Vanja



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Long Night, Character Death Fix, Gen, Past Abuse, Theon Greyjoy Deserves Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 14:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18671638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanja/pseuds/Vanja





	1. Alive

The world was pain.

Pain in his limbs, in his chest, a burning inferno deep in his gut, a screaming crescendo filling his head. His mind shied from the agony; there was peace in the darkness, in death.

Ramsey would not allow him to die. Reek was to suffer; he was to live in pain for the rest of his days. Except... there had been kindness, if he proved himself useful. He remembered that vaguely, underneath the quivering terror buried deep, a possibility of earning a gentle touch.

He knew it all to be true, and yet, it was also indistinct and far away, as if it happened a lifetime ago. There was more, after. Snow and blood and screams. Yara’s face in the gloom of the dog kennels, mortification so deep that his bones burned with it, sheer terror overwhelming all. Yara on the ship, her hand on his shoulder.

“What is dead,” he tried to say, “may never die.”

“Hush,” a voice came, soothing in the darkness.

Other noises blurred together, a cough, a steady drip, whispers and muted cries, cloth sliding over skin.

A slight pressure against his neck. Fingertips.

Damp cloth pressing against his mouth, his nose. His lungs trembled, no longer expelling air but something else, acrid and heavy. Darkness took over again.

 

\--

 

Pain.

He made a sound of distress. Ramsey would come looking for him, and he could not move. He could not stand. Even his eyelids refused the command to lift. More pain would follow unless he obeyed.

He shifted, a wave of agony rolling through his body, breaking against his temples. His body was covered, linen under his fingers, linen above, but a heavy weight pressing it down. Through the thick scents of blood and sickness he could pick out the stench of fur, slightly damp and none too fresh. It triggered a memory of Ramsey’s dogs, vicious beasts who tore into his flesh. Ramsey’s voice promising they could do so much worse.

He shifted again and the weight shifted with him. It was furs. Only furs, nothing more.

Yawning chasm of pain opened in his stomach from the movement, pushing the fear away. He sobbed through clenched teeth. He had a stomach, teeth and mouth. Hands and fingers. So many body parts unaccounted for, so many below the agony of his abdomen.

He was naked under the linen, under the weight. Someone had undressed him. Someone had... seen.

Nausea clogged his throat. His head was on fire. He had to get up. He had to--

 

\--

 

Pain. Heat.

He shifted slightly and chills raced across his damp skin. His throat tasted like vomit and tears. Everything was wet, sticking to his arms, his chest. He could smell urine and blood, and a sweet stench of infection underneath. Had he pissed himself again? In the beginning, he could not tell. The urge no longer existed, the muscles no longer held. He used to wet himself while walking, sitting, crying, just like a child.

A cool cloth pressed against his forehead, his neck.

A voice sang softly.

“I am the voice in the fields when the summer's gone,  
The dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow,  
Ne'er do I sleep thoughout all the cold winter long,  
I am the force that in springtime will grow.”

“I am the voice of the past that will always be,  
Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields,  
I am the voice of the future, bring me your peace,  
Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal.”

 

\--

 

Pain.

He blinked at the stone ceiling. The light was low, flickering somewhere to his left. His fingers twitched. Cool linen above and below. Searing agony in his abdomen, a faithful constant.

He remembered now. Cold so sharp it burned, battle hot with fire and blood. The frenzy of shifting from one wight to the next, muscles screaming in exertion, bodies littering the snow. His own spear broken, tearing his insides.

On the verge of panic, he tried to clench his fists. His fingers ached, skin pulling tight. His legs were dead weights, not a single muscle obeying commands, except... there. A small twitch of the toe, a shooting pain to his stomach as a reward. It seemed that most of his body parts were present. Except the one Ramsey took.

He felt nothing there but a gaping emptiness, a lack, not even a ghost of what had been. He could see a mound of furs rising above his body, but underneath it, underneath the linens, he was bare and exposed. How many had seen? How many knew?

He tried to lift his head and groaned, the bed swaying like a ship in a storm.

“Hush,” a voice came from his left.

He turned his head slowly, cautiously, nausea throbbing behind his eyes and in his throat.

A man sat by his bedside. A stranger, dark and fine-boned, with thick black hair gathered at the nape of his neck. His eyes looked black in the gloom; his lips the only smear of color among a thousand shades of darkness.

The man pressed a cold cloth to his neck, and Theon shuddered. His throat was raw and parched. His face hot.

“Where,” he tried to say, and only a croak came out, nothing resembling a word.

The man disappeared from the view, but returned soon after, another cloth dripping across Theon’s shoulder. A thin stream of cool water slid over Theon’s lips, his cheek, and into his mouth. It tasted like life and light, like being born again out of the sea.

“Where,” he tried again, this time the word almost fully formed.

“Winterfell, My Lord,” the man said softly, his accent strange and lyrical, “The war is over. The Night King is dead. We won.”

Dead. The Night Kind dead, the army of the dead defeated.

The war won, and he, Theon Greyjoy, still alive.

He thought he would laugh, but found himself crying instead, soundless weeping that sparked fresh agony in his wound. Tens of thousands of men dead, Winterfell burning, its walls torn down, and Theon Greyjoy survived.

The last male heir to the Greyjoy name who could produce no others. The betrayer, the coward, who could not even die properly when cut down.

Alive.

 

\--

 

Pain.

He opened his eyes to sunlight shifting against the stones. Blinking, breathing, moving fingers and toes. His last waking felt a dream. Had he cried? Had he cried like a child with a strange man at his shoulder?

He clenched his fists and they obeyed. He shifted his legs and they obeyed. Pain grew with each movement, but it was no longer all-consuming. He turned his head and found the man still there, a book opened on his knees, sitting peacefully by Theon’s side.

The dark shirt a little too large for his frame, overlong hair haphazardly collected in a messy tail, two small freckles on the left side of the neck; an old pale scar, less than a few centimeters long, etched into the left eyebrow. He was young; likely Theon’s age, or a few years older at most.

If the man was startled to find him awake and watching, he did not show it. He smiled, a sweet smile that Theon felt in the depth of his stomach, where his wound ached with renewed fury. The cloth appeared again and Theon’s cracked lips soaked it up, his tongue catching as much as he could stand.

“Who?” he managed, his voice stronger but still unrecognizable.

“I am a Healer, my Lord.”  
“Name.”  
“Yasir. My name is Yasir, my Lord.”  
“Theon,” he said with effort, the name tasting new on his lips.

The man smiled again,  
“I know who you are, my Lord.”

“No. Theon.”

The man tilted his head slightly, fingers brushing damp hair off Theon’s cheek.

“If you insist,” he said, “Theon.”

It sounded new from the man’s lips too, his accent shaping the letters into something exotic and unknown. A name fitting for the one who had lived, and died, and lived again.

Lulled by the soothing rhythm of fingers against his scalp, Theon closed his eyes.


	2. The Ironborn

Winterfell had seen many strange things since the Sumer’s end. Kings, Queens, giants, and dragons. An army of eunuchs, and Dothraki screamers, and the undead. Yasir had passed through unnoticed, just another stranger, certainly no more interesting than Missandei or the Lannister Imp. Sansa had no interest in the man’s history or origins; she had not noticed him before the battle, and he’d proven himself indispensable in its aftermath. She had assumed he’d arrived with the Dragon Queen, and although Theon had no proof, he believed that the Dragon Queen’s men assumed Yasir hailed from Winterfell. With so many foreigners and refugees within the walls, no one had bothered to ask much more than his name. Some men remembered him from before the battle, a helpful youth with a lyrical accent, always willing to lend a hand. In the aftermath of the battle, however, there were very few of those who lived and did not know Yasir by name.

Theon heard their stories one after another. A limb saved, a sword wound patched, a bone reset, a finger reattached. It stood to reason Yasir had laid his hands on some men who did not live; the death toll was high, nearly ten thousand or more. But none had seen him fail to save a life. Each man had a story, excluding his own, of Yasir saving a hopeless case, healing a wound that should have meant death. Theon himself was one such story. He’d known the spear through his abdomen was a death sentence, one that no healer this side of the Narrow Sea could mend. And yet he lived, marked front and back with a ghastly furrow of new flesh, still raw and tender, but otherwise ordinary. A few men furtively spoke of magic, all while looking over their shoulders for those why may mock them for such words. In a world in which dragons, wights, and the Red Witch existed, magic healing did not seem so farfetched.

Theon did not contradict them. Perhaps there _was_ such a thing in the world as magic used in healing, or perhaps Yasir was simply more skilled in his craft than the Maesters of the Seven Kingdoms. When one averted a certain death, the reasons why made little difference.

Each morning Theon opened his eyes to the stone ceilings of Winterfell, and felt nothing but pure and undiluted gratitude. Of all those who had perished in the battle, he felt himself least deserving of a new life, of a miraculous rebirth. And yet, his gratitude seemed irrevocably tied to dark eyes and a gentle touch in his hair. A soft voice singing songs in a strange tongue, a palm cupping his cheek. It was all well and fine not to question a miracle he’d been given, but he could no more avoid thoughts of Yasir than he could avoid himself.

His early days in the sickbed were little more than a shivery mist lacing through a haze of pain. The man had spent time by his bedside, _that_ Theon was certain of; they had even spoken to each other, a few words, nothing more. How long Yasir had cared for him, how often he sat by Theon’s bed, how many times they’d exchanged words, none of it was forthcoming. By the time his head had sufficiently cleared, and he could arrange his memories in sequence, the man had moved on to someone else who needed him. By the time Theon found himself wondering who Yasir was and where he’d come from, it had been too late to ask.

From the moment he could fold his knees without screaming in pain, Theon pushed himself to the limit of endurance. He would no longer accept help cleaning or dressing himself, although doing it alone took hours out of the day. The only other caretakers regularly in his attendance were one serving boy and two maids. He believed the maids had been the ones to feed him, change him, and clean him while he was unconscious. This meant they had seen his scars, old and new. They had seen the lack between his legs. Theon understood it had been necessary, and that Sansa had likely chosen those she could trust. But he wanted none of their concern or pity.

He began walking long before anyone believed he should. It had been a stretch to call it so in the beginning, a few steps across the room to the chair, and nearly an hour of rest before he could attempt the way back. There had been a sense of shivering expectation, deep inside of him, that Yasir would come back to measure his progress. He didn’t know why it had seemed so important, for the man to not find him lacking. Each time he pushed himself a little harder, a little further, he could almost feel the ghost touch of the man’s hand on his shoulder.

Despite his wishes and expectations, another six days passed with no visitors other than Sansa. It was only the first time Theon had made his way down the halls of Winterfell, with an aid of a walking staff, that he came face to face with Yasir again.

The moment Yasir turned the corner in front of him, Theon stopped, taken aback. He’d been certain that he remembered the man clearly, despite slipping in and out of consciousness. Now, those memories seemed nothing but vague echoes. The man’s hair was dark, yes, but a thousand lighter strands were woven through, as if bleached by the sun. There seemed a thousand lighter shades in his eyes too, an array of golds and browns. His eyebrows were black, arching like crow’s wings, and his eyelashes a thick smudge of charcoal against the eyelid.

The man saw him and bowed, the depth exact, not an inch more or less than what was due to an heir of the Iron Islands. His hair was haphazardly gathered at the nape of his neck, and some of it escaped the leather tie, swinging forward to frame his face.

“Lord Greyjoy,” he murmured.

He straightened without meeting Theon’s eyes, and was gone a moment later, disappearing down the hall.

Theon had meant to say something, anything at all. A faint scent of lemons lingered in the hallway, and he leaned against the wall, feeling stupid and small. He remembered, _he thought_ he remembered telling Yasir to call him Theon. He thought he remembered the man agreeing, saying his name in that strange accent, the sound of it lovely and comforting. Had he dreamt the hand on his shoulder, the fingers in his hair?

It took three more days before he could make his way into the courtyard, the stairs nearly his undoing. Once he found himself among other men who’d fought in the battle, men who should have died from their wounds, he began hearing stories of miraculous recoveries at Yasir’s hands.

“M’arm was hangin’ at my side, m’Lord,” a man said, taking a break from wheeling stones, “Useless t’was, fingers black, could feel nothin’ from shoulder down. I thought for sure if I lived, i’d be as one-armed man.”

Couple of others had gathered, passing a water skin back and forth. One man, head and shoulders taller than Theon, and twice as wide, offered him the skin. Theon took it, expecting water, and nearly choked on strong rum. He cleared his throat and handed the skin back. The man grinned, a deep scar across his left cheek threatening to split his face in two.

“One of the Night King’s minions,” he said, slashing a finger across the scar, “wanted my head off, but I tripped over ol’ Reben, Stranger take his soul, and got this instead. I could put my finger right in, and touch my own teeth.”

And so the stories went, one after another.

Most claimed Yasir had come with the Dragon Queen. Some said he’d come from a village further North, looking for the safety of Winterfell’s walls.

One man scratched his head, then shrugged his shoulders,  
“Dunno where t’boy come from m’Lord. Dornish by the looks, innit? They got the dark skin, like the Queen’s eunuchs.”  
“His accent is not Dornish,” Theon said.  
“Dunno what Dornish sound like m’Lord. Wherever he come from, he come jus’ in time. I’d’not care if he was dragon in disguise when I stood on m’own two legs again.”

One after another, the men didn’t know, and didn’t seem to care.

They told other stories however, stories that Sansa hadn’t shared. Stories of Lyanna Mormont, the Slayer of Giants. Stories of Brienne of Tarth, and Arya Stark. Already, these stories were becoming legends, weaving reality with myth. Lyanna Mormont rose from the dead to kill the giant; the old Gods gave her wings so she could strike the giant in the eye; she rode on the giant’s shoulder and slayed the ice dragon first, before taking the giant’s head. Brienne of Tarth killed five thousand of the undead with her bare hands; she rode the ice dragon; she slayed the ice dragon with a sword made of light. Arya Stark turned into a direwolf and tore the Night King’s throat out; she slayed the Night King with a weapon forged in dragon’s breath.

Having met all three of the women, and having grown up with Arya besides, Theon had to admit some of the stories did not seem so farfetched. Yet, the real surprise came when he passed the servant’s hall later on that night, and heard his own story told.

It was late, the supper hour long past, and Theon was on his way to brave the stairs again, one last effort before he allowed himself to sink into bed. The servant’s hall was crowded but subdued, the men drinking and sluicing mud off their boots, the women relaxing after the day’s work, only a couple still sewing by the candlelight flames. Theon had meant to pass by unnoticed when the sound of his name reached him. He stopped in the dark hall, just outside the door, heart immediately climbing into his throat.

There were some men and women in there who’d survived the Bolton’s rule. Who remembered Reek, and saw him kneel at Ramsey’s feet. None might dare call him a eunuch to his face, but if one knew Theon was only half a man, he was sure to whisper it to another.

He pressed against the wall silently, and instead of hearing the story of Reek, the Betrayer of the North, he heard the story of The Ironborn.

They spoke in hushed voices, tinged in awe. How Theon had been chosen as a champion of the Old Gods, to keep the army of the Dead from the weirwood. How the Old Gods had given him a spear that could slay dozens of the undead with one thrust of the blade. How he died and rose a hundred times in one night, the Old Gods breathing life into his body. How the Night King himself had left the field of battle to face the Ironborn and his spear. Some said he’d fought the Night King and lost, but the Old Gods gave him one last life to live. Some said Theon had been the one to kill the Night King; that they each struck a killing blow, but only Theon survived. Some said both he and Arya had turned into direwolves, and tore the Night King to pieces between them.

When the stories became so farfetched that some of the women began to giggle in disbelief, Theon pushed off the wall with shaky hands, and slunk off into the darkness. It seemed the greatest joke of all, that he had lived long enough to hear himself called a hero.


End file.
